


Trust Me

by Sealie



Series: sga/traders [6]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-07
Updated: 2006-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stargate Atlantis/Traders crossover no'6 [voyage par mer segment]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: If I was to use the PG system, I think it would be a 15.  
> Spoilers: none  
> Betas: LKY and Klostes – without whom this would have significantly less semicolons and Rodney would be driving a Skoda.

**Trust me**  
by Sealie

  
“Are you ready, Grant?” Rodney called up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Huddled on the sofa, under a sheet and pile of blankets, Sheppard mumbled a vague objection. Rodney peered through the dimness of a room sheltered by heavy curtains. Making a step towards the couch, all he could see was a lump and a sweep of jet black hair since Sheppard’s forehead was pushed up against the back of the couch.

“Where are we going, and why are we going and what are we going for?” Grant asked as he made a point of avoiding each third step on his way down the stairs. Rodney did not ask.

“We’re going to Borders because I need DVDs, DVDs and more DVDs and some books and some novels and maybe a biography or two and audiobooks.” Rodney counted off on his fingers.

Grant chose to not step on the bottom two steps and executed a bouncy jump right into Rodney’s personal space.

“Don’t they have bookstores in Antarctica?” Grant asked.

“No. Or Starbucks,” Rodney returned darkly.

“Do you really want to go back?” Grant cocked his head to the side.

A valid question, Rodney thought, and one that no one had asked. On one hand there was the call of research -- the beauty of finding and knowledge to be plumbed -- but that was countered by the Wraith and threat of Atlantis’ exposure which hung over them every day. The balance was so evenly distributed between the two.

Knowledge or Death.

“Rodney?”

Warmth touched his chest. A hand rested over Rodney’s heart.

“Wha--” Rodney flinched away, violently. In the space of a harsh breath, he moved three steps away from his cousin. Grant stared back at him. Tensely, Rodney scrubbed at his sternum, knuckles hard against the flesh. The ripple of skin over bone was strangely reassuring.

“Where did you go? You went far away,” Grant asked softly.

“No. No. I’m fine. Fine. What coat do you want to wear? Or just your cardigan?” Rodney babbled.

Grant touched his own chest, expression perplexed.

“We need to get moving. It’s Saturday; the store will get busy. Coat or cardigan?” Rodney persisted, willing his heartbeat to slow to normal rhythm.

“What’s the weather forecast?” Grant asked sensibly.

Rodney glanced up to the left as he made a point of recalling the morning’s Weather Channel on the tiny television in the kitchen. Details always soothed him. “58oF, mostly cloudy, humidity 42%, Dew point 42oF, wind 2.7 mph from the North, pressure 1013.4 HPa, visibility 16.1 kilometres.” Rodney clicked his fingers and converted back into Imperial. “10 miles. Few clouds at 6000 ft. Scattered clouds at 12000 ft but mostly cloudy at 22000 ft.”

“Cardigan,” Grant decided.

“You’re a match made in heaven,” John grumbled from the sofa.

Both men turned. The lump hadn’t moved. Grant leaned to the side looking around Rodney. Not even a tuft of jet black hair was now visible.

“Do you want to come, Colonel?” Rodney ventured.

“Cheese on toast,” Sheppard said abstrusely.

Rodney shared a confused glance with his cousin. Grant put his fingers to his lips. “I think he’s sleep talking.”

“Yeah, he does that on missions when we’re sharing a tent,” Rodney said absently. “Mutter, mutter – never says anything useful, though. No blackmail material.”

“Missions?” Grant queried.

“Cardigan then?” Rodney stepped adroitly away from both his cousin and the subject, to collect his thin canvas jacket and Grant’s baggy blue cardigan hanging on the end of the banister.

Grant tiptoed over to the old, battered couch. One of two things were going to happen, Rodney noted: either Grant was going to make it into John’s personal space without disturbing him or any second, Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard was going to be sitting up, wide awake and spitting nails. Picking up Grant’s cardigan and rifling through his pockets, McKay watched.

Grant made it right to the side of the couch, and, astonishingly, lifted up the edge of the covers without the slightest reaction. Edging forward a step, but staying well out of reach, Rodney craned his head to peer around the edge of the couch. Sheppard was tucked tightly back against the back of the couch, forehead still mashed against the cushions. He was sound asleep, breathing deeply and evenly.

It was sort of flattering, Rodney thought, that John could sleep so deeply and safely in his home. He cocked a finger, drawing Grant away. Obediently, he came to his side.

“Are we leaving Flyboy and--” Grant pointed in the direction of Rodney’s bedroom, “-- a note?”

Rodney grimaced, thinking of Carson happily asleep in his special Sealy Posturepedic bed, huddling softly into its delicious firm softness, when he had had to share with Grant on a mere Queen-sized bed. And, adding insult to injury, Grant was, of course, a morning person.

Hence the shopping expedition.

“I thought about going to Best Buy, but there’s a ‘Peets’ in Borders. We can get coffee.” Rodney brightened.

“Note?” Grant emphasised. “Flyboy will appreciate a note.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Rodney waved a hand at his annoying cousin. “Go find Jinx and drop him on Sheppard’s head then we’ll go shopping. I think that he’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m not a very nice person.”

“That’s not true,” Grant noted, “at least not some of the time.”

  
~*~

“I don’t believe that I’m here.” Rodney clenched the steering wheel of his reliable, Subaru Legacy wagon and looked at the Borders bookstore across the parking lot. The store looked busy even though it was just after nine o’clock. He heard Sheppard say ‘09:00, McKay!’ in his head.

For the last year he had lived in a community where, even if he didn’t know everyone’s name (as if), he recognised their faces. He felt strangely naked; as new experiences went – suddenly being aware of the gnomes that had not even twinged on his consciousness before – it bordered on the pure mundane. Rodney shook his head; he had orbited stars, why had this stopped him for even a heartbeat? He stormed out of the car, made four long steps, stopped, turned, looked back and said,

“Grant? Coming?”

Grant slowly crawled out of the car on the driver’s side for some inexplicable reason. Standing, he glanced around, head bobbing as he took in everything: all the different shops, gaudy and colourful; the sprawling parking lot and trickle of the cars and SUVs slowly filling up the parking spaces.

“Grant?” Rodney pointed impatiently over his shoulder at the Border’s store.

“Special books. Good books? Any books? Rodney?” Grant asked, head bobbing smoothing to stillness.

“Just browsing, grab anything that’s interesting. Bookshop.” Rodney inhaled and smiled, already smelling that distinctive scent of books from memories alone. “I need lots of books to take back.”

“Take back,” Grant mused.

Rodney watched Grant add one and one and come up with Stargate despite the logical Antarctica ruse. He held up a finger. “We can’t talk about it here, Grant. Remember, the General made you sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

“I’d thought you were working in Antarctica.” Grant rocked back on his heels, wrapping his arms around his chest in a massive self-hug. “You told me that you were in Antarctica, but in Antarctica you have internet access and mail deliveries. You told a lie.”

“Grant.” Rodney scanned the parking lot. His bodyguards’ black windowed SUV was parked in the other aisle – its mass taking up two parking spaces. It seemed to loom.

Grant followed his gaze and screwed up his nose in question. Rodney strode to Grant’s side and swung an arm around his shoulders, to draw him from the parking space to the paved sidewalk.

“Lock the car?” Grant tapped the metallic green hood.

“Out of practice!” Rodney clicked his fingers, he had even left the key in the ignition; Ancient technology was spoiling him. Releasing his cousin, he reached in, collected his keys, then kicked the door shut and locked the door. Grant was still standing where he had left him, his attention caught by a bird flying overhead, the sweep of its wings making it soar.

“Come on.” Rodney swung his arm back over Grant’s shoulders to guide him towards the store. A lady coming out of the bookstore made a double take and smiled widely.

Twins – or at least relatives that verged on the identical -- always seemed to garner that sort of smile.

Grant smiled toothily back at her. Rodney executed a curt nod and dragged them through the double doors and into the foyer.

“Heaven,” Rodney breathed. There were three floors arrayed before him around a central escalator. The ceiling was an arch of glass so the building was bright and airy. The scent of brewing coffee wafted on the air. To his immediate left was a section devoted to magazines and to the right was silly gift wrap and cards. But the chest-high shelves arrayed before them would be filled with literature, reference manuals, history, science fiction, DVDs, videos, CDs, audiobooks….

Grant and Rodney walked in tandem to the store map.

“What first?” Grant asked.

“Some audiobooks would be good. Listen to them in the lab.”

“For everyone to listen to in your lab?”

“No, for me. I can upload them onto my MP3 player.”

“You--” Grant smacked his lips. “--you came home. Back. Here… from far away.”

Rodney hummed a vague agreement, mapping out the most efficient path through the store.

“And Flyboy?”

“And Carson and Elizabeth. Dr. Sheridan and Dr. Edu.”

Grant pondered for a heartbeat. “So your… people are still far, far away? Stuck in ‘Antarctica’.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “I’m not taking my entire lab presents. I’ve downloaded the latest TV series – that new thing: Lost and Battlestar Galatica. I’ll put them on the server when I get back home.”

Grant smiled winningly, evidently approving of Rodney’s largess. “What about the films you were downloading?”

“Hey, it’s a barter economy; I have to hold some collateral back.”

Grant’s mouth fell open. “Barter economy?” he whispered, horrified.

“Yeah. Chocolate is very valuable.” Rodney tapped his fingers on the engraved map -- the first level seemed to be devoted to popular culture and cookery books. They could bypass them. Taking cookery books to Atlantis would be a little like torture. He mused, “I could wrap one up for Kavanaugh.”

“Barter economy.” Grant nibbled on his fingernails.

“I think we should do the sci-fi section last. Nah, I don’t think I can wait that long. What do you think about checking the DVDs and picking up a few of the classics like Hitchcock or ‘The Shining’? Oh, I know: ‘A Matter of Life and Death’ – that would be good for movie night.”

In rapid succession, Rodney selected a route going through all the interesting sections and at the halfway point they neatly ended up at ‘Peets’ for coffee.

“Barter economy.” Grant moaned.

“Get over it.” Rodney clicked his fingers right under Grant’s nose. “It’s just a different sort of mathematical patterning: tava beans for antibiotics.”

“What are tava beans?”

Rodney held his finger and thumb about an inch apart making Grant cross his eyes. “Sort of elongated, dicotyledonous legume which can be ground into a paste to fortify flat bread and stews. Pretty horrible, actually. But as Carson would say: nutritionally valuable.”

“You should check out the cookbooks,” Grant said sagely, nodding his head. “Yes, check out the cookbooks.”

“I don’t think any amount of garlic would make tava beans palatable,” Rodney responded darkly, “I don’t even think that chocolate and chilli could help.”

  
~*~

Rodney hummed happily under his breath. He wasn’t a total bastard; he remembered that Radek had a fondness for the dulcet tones of Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas and liked Iain Banks. There was no real accounting for taste, but Rodney thought that he would read the novel before giving it to Radek. He carefully dropped the book in the third basket that an enterprising member of staff had dug up for him. The other two were waiting at the registers on the first floor.

“Money to burn. Money to burn,” he sung happily under his breath. A couple of patents and over a year’s consultancy salary with danger pay on top of that and practically no outgoings, he could seriously splurge.

There was something very nice about browsing. He had ordered upwards of eight DVD box sets and more than a few books from authors whose works that he coveted over the internet. But wandering along the stacks, head cocked to the side, reading the titles and author names, and looking for that gem was a special pleasure.

He pulled out a book by a Jim Butcher and saw by the cover that it was a bit too fantastical for his taste. He needed some Heinlein. Rodney shook his head, he was looking at the “B’s - the rest of the alphabet would have to fall in line.

There was a beep of a communications device and Rodney automatically tapped, jabbing his finger deeply in his ear. The kid at the other end of the aisle, wearing impossibly bagged canvas pants and a black, ripped t-shirt glanced at him.

Rodney scowled and pulled out his cell phone. “McKay,” he growled.

“Hey,” Sheppard drawled. “You still at the bookstore?”

Rodney huffed happily. “Books,” he intoned.

On the other end of the line Sheppard let out a relaxed laugh. “You sound just like Grant. Have you seen any Carl Hiaasen or Val McDermid?”

“Who?” Rodney shifted his shoulder and trapped the ‘phone against his ear as he pulled out a new Charles de Lint and shook his head – more fantasy, but De Lint had an interesting way of telling a tale. “Is Carson up yet?”

“Nah, still out for the count, judging by the snoring. He could wake the dead.”

Rodney threw the book in his crate. “McDermid? What genre? Fantasy, biography? What?”

“Crime thriller,” Sheppard supplied. There was clatter which sounded like the dishwasher being emptied. Rodney knew if John wanted to eat breakfast off a plate that needed doing.

“Grant’s in the crime section. I’ll go tell him to pick up the latest releases?”

“That’ll be great.”

“Hey, why don’t you grab a taxi and join us?” Rodney consulted his watch. “It’s about time for coffee. There’s a ‘Peets’.”

There was the clunk of kitchen cabinet doors opening and closing. “Since you don’t seem to have any groceries, I’ll take you up on that. Where the Hell are you?”

~*~

Rodney turned down yet another aisle and scratched his head. Giving up, he stood on his tiptoes and hollered over the sea of books.

“Grant!”

Heads snapped around. The woman on the registers looked up. A mother with a red nosed, drippy brat in a stroller scurried forwards.

“Have you lost your son?”

“No.” Rodney scanned left and right. He drew in another big breath. “Grant!”

The woman on the registers raised her hand and waved at a colleague arranging a display beside the escalator. Rodney cast an absent glare at them both, they were not going to stop him finding Grant and if that necessitated yelling, he would yell.

He strode down the row of shelving, stopped and looked left and right. But still no Grant. Worry began to spiral in his guts.

“Grant!”

The display gnome finally caught up with him. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“I’ve lost my cousin. He’s autistic. You don’t need a photograph; he looks like me. See if you can find him.” Rodney patted down his pockets and pulled out his Ancient life signs detector. They looked alike, their mothers were twins, and Rodney sort of possibly suspected that they might have the same father. Regardless of whom Grant’s father was there was obviously a great deal of shared genetic material. He popped the back panel of his detector and reconfigured the sensitivity of the array. Turning it on himself, he took a detailed reading. The staff member leaned forward to peer at the screen.

“What! Why are you still here? Why aren’t you looking for my cousin?” He waved her off with a flick of his hand.

Rodney flipped the life signs detector back over and reinitialised it with the new configuration. The screen showed the gross structures of the immediate area. Not for the first time, Rodney berated the Ancients for making a device with such a limited range.

Grant was not within a two hundred meters radius. Rodney headed immediately for the escalator, striding down it, mowing past two old grannies who had to cling to the moving rail. He arrowed straight to the exit, abandoning his collection of books, DVDs, CDs and audiobooks without a backward glance. He burst out into the parking lot.

The giant SUV sat watching. Rodney bolted over. The incompetent twits. They were as useless as Kavanaugh; Grant resembled him closely enough that they were mistaken for twins. If he had walked off – they should have followed. It was entirely possible a bright shiny object had garnered Grant’s attention. But it was not unfeasible that the reason behind his disappearance was more nefarious.

Rodney stomped alongside the vehicle, intent on getting the agents in on the search. He yanked open the driver’s door and swallowed a scream.

He slammed the door shut and fell back against the car parked parallel to the SUV. His heart clamoured as if it were trying to escape through his throat. Rodney fumbled for his cell phone and hit the third speed dial getting straight through to the SGC operations control on the secure line.

“Cheyenne – telemetry dept.”

“Dr. Rodney McKay. Contractor – Deep Space telemetry,” Rodney said faster than the speed of light. “I’m at the Borders at the Rosegate Boulevard. My assigned bodyguards have both been murdered with single shot to the head. My cousin, Grant Jansky, is missing.” Rodney sucked in a massive breath. “Get a fucking containment team out here ASAP.”

“Sir?”

Rodney ignored him, ending the call and hitting speed dial one for Sheppard. “Pick up the ‘phone, Sheppard,” he berated. “Pick up the ‘phone.”

“Hullo?” A Scottish voice said cautiously.

“Carson, where the hell are you?”

“Uhm?” Carson pondered a moment. “Pulling into the trading estate where the bookstore is.”

“Hurry up. Grant’s disappeared and my bodyguards have been killed.” Rodney ducked down between the two vehicles presenting the smallest possible target to any watching agent.

“What?”

“You heard, Carson.” Rodney scanned the immediate area looking for a good place to wait that allowed him a good view of the strip mall and offered some protection. “Pull up by the Academy Bank opposite Borders, I’ll be hiding in the foyer.”

“We’re pulling into the parking lot now,” Sheppard said tinnily over the cell phone. “You’ll spot us easily, we ‘borrowed’ Carson’s bodyguards’ car. Yup, I can see your rattrap.”

Rodney popped up like a jack rabbit, spotting the SGC black sedan tooling to a halt beside his own Subaru Legacy wagon. Heart in his mouth, he started running. Carson had already opened the door and was standing up to greet him.

“Rodney, lad, are you okay?”

Rodney waved frantically. “Get back in the car. Sheppard, keep the engine running.”

Carson dropped back into the passenger’s seat and Rodney reached them, rushing to the back door and clambering in.

Sheppard turned in the driver’s seat, resting an arm across the back, so he could better see Rodney. In turn, Rodney leaned forward, holding the life signs detector between the driver and front passenger. “This is going to pick up Grant’s DNA life signature. It’s a limited radius, we have to move and we have to move fast.”

Sheppard moved, snatching the local map that Carson held in his hands. He splayed it over the steering wheel, finger immediately jabbing against the strip mall.

“Time line?” Sheppard asked.

“Less than five minutes,” Rodney said shortly.

“They could be anywhere,” Carson protested, “we should wait for the police.”

“The freeway is going to be backed up, some kind of accident,” Sheppard said. “We heard it on the radio when we were driving in. Question is, will the guys who took Grant know?”

“On television the bad guys usually monitor the police with radios,” Carson said. “They should know.”

“Okay, they want to get away. They won’t go to the freeway.” Sheppard shifted the map through ninety degrees. He ran his finger tip over the details, threading his way the five or so miles to the small Paddock Field airport. “You can’t take an unconscious person through Denver International Airport.”

“Unconscious!” Rodney shrieked as Sheppard flipped the map off the steering wheel and shifted the sedan into reverse. Rodney fell back against the seats as Sheppard spun the car around.

Carson picked up the map from the footwell and spread it over the dash. Shuffling onto his ass, Rodney got his seat belt and secured himself firmly. By the time that they were screeching out of the strip mall limits, he had the life signs detector held between Carson and Sheppard.

“Carson,” Sheppard said. “Call the SGC and get them to order all that flights stay on the tarmac at Paddock Field. A couple of agents shouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“Aye, and I’ll tell them what we’re doing. This is an assumption, you know. We could be completely up the garden path.”

“It’s a reasonable hypothesis,” Rodney said sharply.

“Hypothesis, hypothesis,” Carson said sing song under his breath, but immediately set to calling the SGC.

“Faster. Faster. Faster.” Rodney shook the detector frantically. “Faster. I don’t believe this is happening. Even after last night, when we thought something might happen. And the bodyguards. They were dead. Dead. Shot in the head. A bullet right in the temple. There was blood everywhere and _brains_. Can you drive faster?”

“I’m going as fast as I can, Rodney. This isn’t the freeway; these are side streets, there’s cars and intersections.” Sheppard stamped on the clutch, shifted down a gear and, illegally, overtook a car and then the next two in front of them. Horns blared.

“Cars must have been directed off the freeway because of the accident,” Carson noted, as he ended his call.

“Or trying to avoid the traffic jam,” Sheppard said, pulling quickly to the side to avoid an on coming car.

Rodney’s life signs detector beeped. “Oh my god. “Left. Left. Left!” he shrieked.

Sheppard made a hand brake turn -- to a cacophony of horns and screeching brakes -- onto a cratered, bumpy and bouncy road. Cars were parked on both sides of the road restricting their passageway. Sheppard threaded the car like a puddlejumper in the eye of the Stargate through the gap. To the left was the backside of a grim set of apartment buildings. On the right, edged by a high, open weave metal fence, was an area with dry tufty grass interspersed by prairie dog holes and a mess of squat, grey, one storey buildings sat about hundred yards off.

“Damn, I lost it. We must be on the periphery of the signal.”

“Direction?” Sheppard demanded.

“Due west. Faster!”

Sheppard floored the accelerator and the sedan’s shocks did little to protect them from the gutted old road. The life signs detector beeped and Grant’s life sign showed up within the complex on the right.

“See if you can see a gate into that estate,” Rodney directed.

As they drove forward, the life sign remained static – Grant’s kidnappers had stopped. Sheppard reached back and snatched the detector out of Rodney’s hand. He glanced at it for a heartbeat and then spinning the steering wheel, parked the sedan haphazardly. Before Rodney blinked, Sheppard was out of the car and scaling the wire fence like a cat.

Carson’s eyes were humongous, jaw dropping as Sheppard rolled over the top of the fence and dropped to earth. Like an arrow from a crossbow, Sheppard shot across the open grassy area to the squat buildings.

“I couldn’t do that on the best day of my life,” Carson noted as he clambered over the gear stick into the driver’s seat.

Rodney, hand on the door handle, paused. “What are you doing?”

“Going to drive around and see if we can find the gate. Try to keep an eye on John.” Carson shifted into reverse, rubber burning.

“Sheppard’s got the life signs detector,” Rodney said.

Carson stamped on the gas pedal, clipping the fender of the car in front. He didn’t even hesitate, just powered along. Rodney stuck his nose up against the window. Sheppard had crossed the sparsely covered field and had reached the first, squat building. As Rodney watched, he darted down the narrow alley between two warehouses.

“We’re going to lose him.”

“Bugger. Oh, there we go.” Carson sent their car between parked cars, hitting the fence at an angle. There was a tear low in the fence, the sort that kids used to get into any forbidden area. The torn fence parted further, the metal links tearing free and scraping over the car.

Rodney’s head bumped against the roof as they careened across the open area, squashing piled up dirt around prairie dog holes into non-existence. Carson slewed widely to the left avoiding a gully and Rodney ended up in the foot well.

“You’re batshit insane. You drive like a rally driver.”

“You’re just jealous,” Carson said. “Good job it’s a gear shift – much more control. I hate automatics.”

Rodney hauled on the back of the passenger seat and dragged himself up. They drove up the alley between the two warehouses following Sheppard. They emerged in a warren of blocky buildings with windows and doors protected by steel shutters. Trash cans and piles of black plastic bags were pushed up against walls.

“There!” Rodney caught a flash of Sheppard’s white hooded fleece moving rapidly down a passageway way to their left. Carson downshifted a gear and gunned the car.

“Bugger,” Carson said inexplicably. He hit the brakes and sent the car into a pile of black plastic bags scraping up against a warehouse wall on their left. Detritus exploded over them, covering the hood. “We cannae drive up to wherever they’re holding Grant. We’re going to have to go in on foot.”

“You’re right.” Breathing heavily, Rodney fumbled his way out of the car.

Carson grabbed the cell phone and map and scrambled back over the gear stick and out on the passenger side. He pressed at the buttons on the ‘phone.

“Bugger, no signal.”

“Come on!” Rodney picked up his pace and ran in Sheppard’s last direction. The area had a feel of disuse: old grey buildings, peeling paint, rusty shutters with faded signs and piles of abandoned garbage. All in all a perfect place for kidnappers to lay low.

Bright, clean whiteness caught Rodney’s eye. Sheppard’s fleece lay abandoned on the ground, its very colour leading to it being discarded. On auto pilot, Rodney scooped it up. The line of the building angled away from him, and Rodney skirted the edge, aware of Carson dogging his footsteps. They crept around a fire ladder and crouched at the far end of the garbage-filled alley was Sheppard. Ducked low, shielded by the wall of the warehouse, he pulled back to study the long angle of the area beyond.

Intent on whatever had his gaze -- out of Rodney and Carson’s sight -- Sheppard raised a hand and without looking at them waved them closer. Rodney shared a concerned glance with Carson and then they tiptoed forwards.

“Took you long enough,” Sheppard breathed as they settled behind him.

“What do we have?” Rodney asked, dropping the fleece beside Sheppard.

Sheppard angled the life signs detector. There was an open space revealed in stark lines, then another blocky building and within it Grant’s life sign flared. Behind Rodney there was a gentle beep as Carson once again checked to see if they had any cell phone coverage. A growl told them that he failed. Rodney leaned out a fraction to look. A blue transit van was parked, nose close to a metal shutter that was raised partway.

Sheppard caught him and pulled him back to force him into his shadow, but not before Rodney saw a suited goon pacing sentry like around the van. Leaning back against the wall, Sheppard looked directly at Carson and Rodney.

“Carson,” he directed, “go back four or five buildings and find a fire escape. Get up to the roof and see if you can get a signal. We need back up.”

“But…” Carson began.

“Go.” Sheppard backed up the order with a finger, jabbing once down the alley.

Grimacing, Carson spun on his heels and scuttled back down the way that he had come. ‘Bloody soldiers, bloody orders,’ they heard him mutter.

Sheppard raised an ironic eyebrow. “Stay here, McKay.”

“No--”

“We don’t have time for this,” Sheppard said harshly. “I’m just going to reconnoitre.”

“I’m coming. He’s my cousin.”

“McKay,” Sheppard said through gritted teeth, “I’m better alone.”

Rodney jerked back, jarred.

Sheppard’s gaze turned unfathomable. Rolling his head on the wall, he edged forward a fraction to look back across the yard. His limbs unfurled, and crouched low he darted across the expanse. Rodney jumped to his feet, trying to stay within the shadow of the wall to watch Sheppard. Fast and silent, Sheppard ran, angled to stay out of the peripheral view of the guard.

The suit walked along the length of the van and paused to raise a square chin. He scanned the wide pathway leading to the warehouse, opposite to Sheppard’s approach. Sheppard slid up behind him, running lightly on his toes. Alerted in the last instance, the man turned and Rodney winced as Sheppard jabbed with the flat of his hand at his throat. The suit started to crumple without a sound. Sheppard caught the agent’s ear and yanked on his opposite shoulder and a dead body fell away. Twisting back and to the side, Sheppard pulled the body down aiming so it wouldn’t fall into the view of the open shutter.

Sheppard crouched and ruthlessly frisked the body, pulling out a weapon from a shoulder holster and another from an ankle holster. Both guns were subject to a millisecond’s scrutiny and then the smaller gun was tucked down the back of his tight jeans. On his toes, Sheppard turned and, keeping low, darted around the back of the van and out of sight.

Rodney couldn’t wait another moment. He left the shadows and ran across the yard. He skidded around the back of the van and Sheppard scowled mightily at him as he scooted up close.

“What did you do to this thing?” Sheppard proffered the life signs detector.

Rodney responded rapid and low, “A quick and dirty tweak so it only registered my DNA. Other people don’t show up. If I’d had more time, I’d have--”

Sheppard gestured cuttingly at his throat and, for once, Rodney shut up. Sheppard stood, hugging the wall and leaned out a fraction to peer into the dark warehouse. Grimacing, he pulled back.

“Can’t see anything.” He handed the life signs detector over.

Automatically, Rodney popped off the back cover and reset the configurations to standard. As he handed it back, he realised that his hand was shaking.

As cold as ice, Sheppard accepted the newly configured detector. Rodney stretched his neck -- five concentric circles pulsated on the screen. Sheppard tapped the circle on the lowest south-eastern quadrant and mouthed: Grant. He was alone, at least twenty foot from the nearest circle.

“I’m going in,” Sheppard said. “Stay here.”

“I…” Rodney managed, but -- amazingly -- Sheppard could move quicker than Rodney could speak. He didn’t hesitate, darting after the colonel.

It was dark and gloomy inside the warehouse and filled with boxes upon boxes like the epilogue in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Of Sheppard there was no sign. Rodney guessed that he was targeting the blobs who weren’t Grant. Photographic memory supplied Grant’s whereabouts. Heart clawing up his throat, Rodney dodged around the boxes, heading towards his cousin.

Scuttling along, he fetched up against a small crate, barking his shoulder hard against splintery woodwork. Peering around a corner revealed more boxes and a wall. He should have seen Grant; he should have passed Grant. He was at the far edge of the warehouse. Rodney turned on his heel. The only answer was that Grant was in one of the nearby crates.

“Bastards,” he grated. Rodney looked to the edge of the building, closed his eyes, estimated distance from the entrance and the images on the LCD screen and picked three possible crates.

A bellow of pain brought his head up like a scenting hunting dog. There was the slap-slap of sparing combatants vying for dominance. Rodney now knew the sound of fighting. He skirted the edge of the pile of crates. Sheppard ducked and dodged around a behemoth, avoiding swings of limbs like tree trunks encased in Armani.

“Oh, for a gun!” Rodney berated the world in general.

Sheppard feinted to the left, moved under an ungainly swipe and thrust the heel of his hand under the agent’s jaw. It proved to be glass. The man’s eyes rolled in the back of his head and he toppled backwards.

Ribs heaving, Sheppard spun around, a fiery gaze focused on Rodney, who stood straight -- hands opened unthreateningly.

“Hey, Colonel. That the last one? That was fast.”

“Where’s Grant?” Sheppard snapped out.

Rodney looked left and right. There was a brand new, pristine crate sitting alone, no other crates stacked on top of it, pushed up against a table. There was a hammer and nails on the table. Rodney didn’t answer; arrowing to the table and snatching up the hammer. He banged the top of the crate with his fist.

“Grant?” he tried as he set the prongs of the hammer to lever up the nails.

“He’s in there?” Appalled, Sheppard crossed over, life signs detector stretched out.

A nail came free with a back grating screech. “It’s just me, Grant!” Rodney yelled. “I’m getting you out.”

There was a muffled thump underscored by a moan.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!” Rodney echoed as he fought with the nails. Sheppard paced back and forth. There was only one hammer.

“Colonel Sheppard!” A familiar Scottish brogue demanded. “Rodney?”

Sheppard rolled his eyes. “Why can’t you guys stay where it’s safe? Over here, Carson.”

A flustered, pink Beckett emerged from the forest of crates. “There’s a dead man beside the van!” he said. He spotted the agent laid out on the dusty floor. Automatically, he crouched checking the man’s pulse.

“Did you contact the SGC?” Sheppard asked flatly.

“Aye, I got through. They’re on their way,” Carson said. “They said they’d be here in a couple of minutes. What’s happening? Where’s Grant?”

Sheppard pointed to the crate, Rodney was labouring over. Carson’s mouth fell open. He shook his head, reading the atmosphere in an instance. He maintained his assessment of his patient’s vitals but his concern smoothed to dispassionate, detached professionalism.

As the behemoth groaned with a grunt, Rodney freed the last nail. Sheppard immediately loaned a hand to force the lid up.

Grant’s big blue eyes met theirs. Grey, shiny masking tape was wrapped around his head sealing his mouth shut. Tape plastered his hands together from finger tips to elbows. Tears and snot stained his face. The bleat as he recognised them was unmistakably Grant.

Sheppard turned and dove at the downed agent, blood-intent in his eye. Carson intercepted him, body blocking him with a wrestler’s move.

“Don’t do it, son.” He curled long arms around a skinny torso and straight lifted the thinner man off the floor. Sheppard’s hand darted, aimed to gouge at eyes, but he caught himself in the last instance.

“Let me go, Carson,” he demanded.

Rodney ignored them; he didn’t care if Sheppard killed the agent. To do this to Grant was unconscionable; the man wouldn’t hurt a fly. He clambered into the crate, wriggling down next to his cousin.

“I got you, Grant. I got you Grant. You’re safe.” There was tape everywhere. He reached to touch the tape but had to stop. “I need some kind of solvent to get this off or I’m going to tear your hair and skin.”

Grant stared at him mutely, eyes overfilled with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Grant. This is all going to come off, I promise you, but it’s going to take time.”

  
~*~

Grant sat at the back of the paramedics’ unit, holding himself stock still as Carson carefully teased strands of baby fine hair from thick, gooey adhesive. The smell of ethanol was strong in the air making Carson’s eyes water. He decided to leave the tape across the back of Grant’s head until later, he needed first to get it off Grant’s face. He freed another strand of hair curling at this jaw. Rodney stood in front of his cousin, snipping carefully at the tape bound around his fingertips with surgically sharp scissors.

Grant whimpered, low in the back of this throat. He was a hairsbreadth from rocking back and forth. The muscles bunched along his back spoke of tension thick enough to cause migraines. Carson wanted to get Grant to the hospital, but as soon as they had closed the doors on the back of the unit, Grant’s heart rate and blood pressure had skyrocketed to astronomical levels. Sedating him was out of the question without first running a series of tests to see if he had been drugged. Opening the doors, letting fresh air in and taking a moment to reassure his patient and free him of his bonds seemed the most humane approach.

Once the hair was freed, Carson could move a little quicker. Swabbing at Grant’s jaw, he gently peeled away the tape. The whimpering increased in volume and Grant’s breath sounded harshly as he over breathed through his nose.

“Hey.” Rodney finally reached the tape at Grant’s wrists and could cut more quickly. “Almost free.”

Grant could not stay still another second, he jerked, tearing at his hands, but couldn’t defeat the metallic weave of the tape.

“Stay still, Grant,” Carson implored. “We’re almost there.”

Sheppard paced behind Rodney, back and forth, back and forth, Sig Sauer held at rest at his hip, primed and ready. He stood between them and the SGC containment team and the ambulance’s paramedics who had been relegated to helping with the surviving Trust agents.

Shaking, Grant thrust his hands into Rodney’s face, mutely demanding speed. Rodney snipped as fast as he could, the tips of the scissors becoming gluey. The final stretch of tape parted and Rodney reached to peel back the fragments. Grant thrashed violently. Carson had to stop carefully removing the tape on his cheek. Grant, finally, wrenched his hands apart and threw himself into Rodney’s arms.

Carson laid a hand on Grant’s back, carefully rubbing, trying to soothe. Gradually, the fluttering heart under his fingers dropped to a respectable rate. Rodney hooked his chin over Grant’s shoulder and stared Carson.

“SCG infirmary?” Rodney whispered.

Carson nodded.

  
~*~

Carson had insisted that they give Grant a bed in the more private corner of the infirmary. Grant had immediately pushed the bed up to the wall. Twice Rodney had had to coax him out from under the metal framed bed. Now Grant rocked back and forth at the head of the bed, tucked up tight against the wall. His knees were clutched against his chest and his face pushed down. He keened under his breath. Rodney sat at the other end, twisting his fingers back and forth, unable to offer any comfort.

Carson, decked in his official white coat, strode back into the offset area holding a clip board with Grant’s initial results. Rodney sat straight at his approach.

“What?” He pointed a pugnacious chin at the papers.

“Grant was given the benzodiazepine diazepam, he’s metabolising it, but I’m going to keep him over night as I’m concerned about its interaction with his haloperidol.”

Rodney erupted to his feet. “What about it?”

“In combination it increases the risk of CND depression and motor impairment.” Ever so slowly, Carson moved closer to Grant. “I’d like to get him on a saline IV.”

“IV?” Rodney sent a weighing look at Grant which spoke of how likely it would be that Carson would be able to insert one.

Carson fired an entreating glance at Rodney as he finally reached the edge of the bed. “Hello, Grant.” He leaned against the mattress, but took care not to touch. “I guess you’re feeling a little bit poorly at the moment. Sort of all detached and woozy. That’s because of the drugs that the men who took you gave you. I can help, but it means that you have to have an IV.”

Grant curled up tighter than a drum, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, and touching his forehead to his knees.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Carson said soberly. “Rodney, would you be kind enough to ask the nurse for some Gatorade cut two thirds with water? Oooh, Grant, do you have a favourite flavour?”

There was no answer. Carson jerked his head at Rodney and the man rushed off

“Grant, please, lift your head,” Carson asked.

Grant didn’t move -- he didn’t even seem to be breathing. Carson knew at the moment that he was Grant’s least favourite person in the universe, but taking the vial of blood had been a necessity. Grant now wasn’t letting anyone close. He had tolerated the pulse ox meter on his finger for seconds. The leads of the electrocardiogram lay tendril like on the mattress and the silenced monitor showed a flat line. Carson didn’t need machines to know that his patient’s blood pressure was up and he was stressed and dehydrated. They had only managed to get the tape off his face because of the effects of the tranquiliser. As it had ebbed, Grant’s distress had spiralled upwards.

“Hey, Squirrel.” Sheppard slid smoothly into view. Evidently he had escaped the briefing with General Landry and O’Neill unharmed. He canted a hip on the bed and without hesitation curled an arm around Grant’s shoulders. “Come here.”

Grant uncurled and mashed his face into Sheppard’s stomach. Sticky fingers clutched at Sheppard’s white fleece as Grant began to sob. Sheppard smoothed large circles over Grant’s shoulders. Carson closed his eyes against the pain of it.

“It’s okay, Squirrel. Those men won’t get you again.”

Carson’s eyes snapped open. Sheppard couldn’t promise that. If there was one thing that the new world that Grant had entered was, it wasn’t safe. But indeed the men that had hurt Grant would not be hurting anyone again.

The Trust was still out there.

“I’ve got the Gatorade.” Rodney ran up, holding the bottle like a talisman.

Carson shushed gently. “Let them be a moment, Rodney.”

Clutching the bottle to his chest and curled up tensely, Rodney watched, eyes wide. Carson didn’t think that he had ever seen Rodney look so much like Grant.

Finally, Sheppard reached out, requesting the bottle of fluorescent blue liquid. Rodney jerked over and planted it in his hand.

“Hey, Squirrel, sit up.” Not taking any refusal, he drew Grant up. Face bright red -- from emotion and the solvent and the residue of the adhesive tape -- Grant drew in a wet sniff. Sheppard flipped the cap off the sports bottle. Pushing the drink into Grant’s hand, he said, “This will help.”

Trembling, Grant stuck the top between his lips, drawing in a mouthful then another.

As Carson opened his mouth to speak, Sheppard chided, “Slow. Slow. You don’t want it coming back up.”

Visibly shaking, Grant curled into Sheppard as he took tiny sips. Sheppard held him, expression impassive, but his grip comforting. Grant shivered minutely and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

“Right,” Rodney suddenly growled. “Right. I’m going to talk with Landry and the President and the Prime Minster. This will never happen again.”

Air rushed in to fill the space left as Rodney abruptly turned on his heel and stalked off. A shiver walked over Carson’s skin; the confrontation in Rodney’s future was going to be explosive and Carson would lay any bet that Rodney would win. Anyone foolish enough to stand up to Rodney would be squashed under a will as indomitable as the weight of Cheyenne Mountain.

 _fin_   



End file.
